


The Choices We Make

by Astrageneia



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Choices, Other, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrageneia/pseuds/Astrageneia
Summary: Climbing her way out of the garbage compactor, Phasma reflects on where she came from and her devotion to the First Order.





	

Phasma cursed FN-2187, Han Solo, and that damned wookiee with each rung of the ladder as she climbed. 

_A field of green grass. Flowers in the box under the window. A herd of fluffy, white kathka lowing in the distance. Her mother calling her and her siblings in for dinner._

She cursed Kylo Ren for having given the order that, if seen, his father and the traitor were not to be stopped or attacked, even saying that any trooper who was asked to aid them was to comply with minimal resistance. It had pained her to have had to cave so easily. The wookiee, admittedly, might have provided a challenge, but the other two wouldn’t have been a problem. In this particular moment it was hard to tell who she wanted to get her hands on more, Solo or FN-2187. 

_Her brother, tossing her up into the air as she giggled._

While she was planning revenge, may as well throw Hux in there as well, for not countermanding Ren’s ridiculous order. Not that she was worried, the Resistance’s pitiful little fleet didn’t have the firepower to make a dent in Starkiller bases formidable defenses.

_The same brother, bloody, broken, and gone, trapped under the remains of what had been their house. Her mother, calling in vain for a husband who would never again answer her. Her sister screaming, clutching the now detached arm of her dead twin. It was the last day that she had ever cried, as she discovered that tears did not bring any of it back._

She reached the top of her climb and took the quickest and least populated route to her quarters to wash and change to a spare set of armor. Any trooper unfortunate enough to cross her path made themselves as small and unobtrusive as possible, recognizing her walk as one that indicated extreme displeasure. If any of them noticed her sorry state, they had better be wise enough to never mention it.

_The refugee camps, where her two remaining siblings succumbed, though she was never sure if it had been clear if it had been the cold or meager food supplies that had killed them, or one of the sicknesses that had spread like wildfire through the hastily constructed work camp. Her mother had drawn hope from the first few rumors that the New Republic would send aid, that surely it would not allow them to be so conquered and ill used by a neighboring system. When it became clear that the New Republic would not be doing anything more than a tepid condemnation and a single shipment of food aid that never made its way to the camps, the woman’s spirit had broken. Her body had failed soon after, and Phasma was alone._

She shook her head, clearing the memories of her childhood. Damn them all. The First Order had been the only ones who had cared enough to save her planet. Strong from years of working in the labor camps, she had been recruited out of that hell hole at 15, and had never looked back. The First Order became her family, the stormtroopers she trained would similarly save the rest of the galaxy, once they were smart enough to submit.

She had barely had time to wash and was putting on another set of armor when the alarm klaxons sounded. The rebels. 

In time, they would see. The First Order would bring peace and order to the galaxy. 

They were the only ones who could.


End file.
